“Speaking frankly, the District of Columbia is a Third World shithole. The local leaders are quacks, demagogues, and outright thieves. Public schools and hospitals are appallingly bad, tens of millions of dollars of public funds have been stolen or squandered, charges of racism are endemic. The Washington Monthly magazine said the District has ‘the worst government in America,’ which is probably true. A U.S. senator called it the most corrupt and most incompetent urban government in America. With me so far?”
Their food came. The waitress asked if they needed anything else and they both shook their heads. When she was gone, Yocke continued:
“Except for tourism and government, the District has no other economic base, nothing to create middle-class jobs. Its people don’t believe in self-help or education. They blame all their woes on the U.S. government. If this place were in Central America or Africa, Barry would have proclaimed himself ‘maximum leader’ or ‘president for life.’ Since they have the misfortune to be surrounded by the United States, however, they want this sixty-four-square-mile banana republic to become the fifty-first state.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
With his mouth full of a bite of BLT, Jake said, “Being a state won’t help.”
“Of course not. But Marion Barry can be governor and Jesse Jackson can be a senator. The Democrats will get a bigger majority in the House and Senate and three automatic electoral votes. What more do you want, for Christ’s sake?”
“You really are a cynic, aren’t you?”
“Oh, come off it, you overpaid nincompoop in a sailor suit. I’ve been a reporter in this town for three years. I go out every night and look at the bodies. I spend evenings at the emergency room of D.C. General with the abused kids, the wives beat half to death, the overdoses, the gunshot victims who won’t tell who shot them, the rape victims. I stand in the courthouse halls and watch the attorneys plea-bargain, selling their clients’ constitutional rights for a reduced sentence or probation. I go to the jails and look at the same old faces again and again and again. I talk to the victims of muggings, robbery, burglary, auto theft. Human carnage is the name of my game, mister. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Three years,” Jake Grafton sighed. “It’s too long, yet it’s not long enough.”
The reporter suddenly looked tired. No doubt his day had been as long as Jake’s. He said, “No doubt you’d feel better if I had said ten years. Let’s change it. Ten years’ experience it is.”
“You’re floating down a sewer in a glass-bottom boat, Yocke. Sooner or later you have to get in and swim.”
“You think I’m to blame for some of this?”
“I read the paper. I haven’t seen any of this with your byline.”
“You ought to read the paper more carefully,” Yocke said. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “There’s a whole bunch of very talented people who think their mission in life is to write all of it — the good, the bad, and every subtle nuance in between. They put all of it in the paper. The hell of it is nobody pays any attention. It’s like tossing pebbles into the Atlantic Ocean. Doesn’t even disturb the fish.”
Jake took a sip of coffee, then helped himself to another bite of BLT. After he’d chewed and swallowed, he said, “You’ve heard about the National Guard deal. How will that go, in this city you describe?”
Yocke took his time. He drank some coffee and slathered the remainder of his sandwich with more mustard. “I don’t know. If the troops are just going to stand around public buildings looking spiffy and the shooters stay home, everything will go swimmingly. Absent a charge of child molestation, Quayle will be our next president.”
“Why’d you say if?”
“You’d be home in bed, Captain, if that was all there was to it. Neither of us rode in yesterday on a hay wagon.”
Grafton caught the waitress’ eye and held his cup aloft. She brought the pot and gave him a refill.
After swallowing his last bite of sandwich, Yocke continued: “A lot of people in this town are fed up to here with these dopers and politicians. They’ve been demanding action and getting politics as usual. Something is going to give.”
“What’re you saying? There’s going to be a revolution?”
“Packed emergency rooms, innocent people slaughtered, children starving and neglected and abused, jails packed full as sardine cans, cops fighting for their lives. Now I’ll tell you, a lot of little people are sick and tired of going to funerals. They’ve had it. And you know what? I don’t think the political cretins have a clue. They’re dancing between the raindrops blaming the big bad Colombians and the white establishment and the National Rifle Association.”
Jack Yocke threw up his hands. “Ah well, even Fidel Castro got the message finally, just before they shot him.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah.”
A few minutes later, Yocke asked, “Why’d you stand up today when they shot at Quayle?”
“Stupid, I guess.”
“Captain, whatever you are, stupid isn’t on the list.”
“Wondered where the shot came from. Took a look.”
Yocke’s eyebrows went up and down once. “Well, thanks for the sandwich.” He shoved the check across toward Grafton.
“Any time.”
Approaching Freeman’s house, for the first time in a long time Harrison Ronald did not feel the dread. He didn’t drive by, of course. After the fracas earlier this evening over at Teal’s Freeman would have a squad of men in front and another squad of men in back, some of whom would inevitably recognize Sammy Z.
Harrison parked two blocks away and walked.
The streets were silent and empty. Amazingly quiet. A gentle breeze made the tree limb shadows cast by streetlights stir and shake.
He was behind a car, crouching, when he got his first look at the end of the alley. A streetlight was on the pole. But there was no one in sight. No guard.
Odd.
Using the cars for cover he worked his way to the alley and looked down it. He couldn’t see anyone.
He went down the alley with the automatic in his hand, flitting from shadow to shadow, pausing occasionally to look and listen. Nothing.
Even Freeman’s backyard was empty.
Nobody home. Okay, where would he be? Three or four possibilities suggested themselves, and as he mulled them Harrison Ronald tried the back door. Locked. He pounded loudly on the door with the butt of the pistol and stood to one side.
Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. He put the muzzle of the silenced pistol against the lock and pulled the trigger.
Inside the lights were off. He proceeded slowly, warily. The house was empty.
In the weapons room he wiped the prints from the automatic, even popped the magazine out and wiped that off on a handy cleaning rag, and tossed it into the box with the others. He selected another automatic with a silencer already attached, loaded it, and helped himself to a couple more loaded magazines. He was about to leave when a silenced Uzi caught his eye. Why not? He took it and four magazines of 9-mm ammo.
Leaving the Uzi inside the back door, he pulled the door shut behind him. He trotted down the alley and the two blocks to the car, then drove it back.